Jeff Pearlman

A Tale of Two Columns

Back in 1994, when I was a 22-year-old rookie writer, the staff of The Tennessean took a white water rafting trip to a river in Atlanta.

I’d never been rafting before, and—along with my mild discomfort with water—was extremely nervous. Plus, it’d rained for two or three days, making the river exceptionally rough. When I boarded the boat, I gulped, held tight and hoped for the best. Instead, about six minutes in, we hit a huge rapid and all eight of us went overboard. I can still recall the fear of soaring down the river backward, legs slamming—Bam! Thud! Bam! Thud!—into every other rock. I thought I was destined to die and, when I finally reached the shore, thanked God for mercy.

Then—it happened. “What the fuck was that!” I screamed at the guide. “How the hell does that happen!? What is wrong with you people? Do you not know what you’re doing! Jesus fucking fucking fucking Christ!” He urged us all to return to the boat. I, alone, refused. No way. No how. I walked back up to the base, steam oozing from my ears. I was mad. Furious. Pissed. Livid.

Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Two hours later, the rest of the folks returned. They’d had a great time—and Linda Moore, one of the paper’s veteran writers, made it clear that my behavior was, well, pathetic. “You need to think before you act,” she said. “Outbursts don’t happen as much when you have some perspective behind them.”

That was nearly 20 years ago. When I think of the incident, I’m still mortified.

Back when I was 22, and writing for The Tennessean, I presumed readers cared about me. I inserted myself in as many pieces as possible because—Hey!–look at me! I’m interesting! And fascinating! And, surely, my life will rivet you! So let me tell you why I’m a great writer! Why life as a Jewish man in the South is so tough! Why my transition from New York to Dixie has been so rocky! Let! Me! Tell! You! All! About! Me!

Like Whitlock, I made it clear to everyone that I was the best fucking writer on the planet. Oh, I didn’t use such language—Whitlock doesn’t, either. I concealed my arrogance in lace-thin code wording; I pretended I was trying to measure up to my heroes (Mike Freeman, Bill Fleischman, Dave Anderson) when, in truth, I just wanted to be fucking famous. That’s what me-first writing is about, whether the journalists want to admit such or not. It’s about being recognized in airports; referred to in bars; cited in studies; mentioned in a Bob Costas monologue; invited to appear on really embarrassing shows where a bunch of writers scream at one another.

Believe me—I’ve been down this path before. I’ve certainly paid my dues as a guy whose ego got in the way of good work. Just Google my name and Nashville Scene. Fuck, I’ll do it for you. Or travel over to sportsjournalists.com, where I once (long ago, for the record) used a fake ID to praise a piece I’d written (or something like that—couldn’t find the link. But, trust me, it was plenty pathetic). Truth is, writer fame is alluring. We’re normally pretty unattractive people. Fat. Lumpy. Gangly. Unsightly. When someone asks us to appear on their radio or TV program, it’s flattering. Beyond flattering. It’s a form of validation. However, fame is also a writer’s Kryptonite. It provides us with a false sense of what’s valuable; it convinces us that we are as important and valued as our words; that people want to know about us; understand us; relate to us.

Bullshit.

Some of the best writing I’ve ever done has come over the past 10 years, when I’ve been—for 98 percent of the time—invisible. I live in my own little Starbucks/Panera/Cosi cave, anonymous to the world, and write my happy books. I drink a cup of hot chocolate, slip on some baggy basketball shorts and a ripped T-shirt and write away. Notoriety matters not. Fame matters not. I get recognized, on average, two times a year. For a moment, it’s flattering. Then, just as quickly, it’s awkward. I don’t want that.

The greatest writers I’ve known revel in documenting the lives of others. Steve Rushin, the finest wordsmith I’ve worked with, never hyped himself for an award and, I promise you, never will. Neither did Jack McCallum. Or Jon Wertheim. Or Chris Ballard. Or Phil Taylor. Or Chuck Culpepper. Or Howard Bryant. Or Jonathan Eig. Or Leigh Montville. Or Mark Kriegel. Or Lee Jenkins. The best writers long to be invisible; to appear simply as a byline atop a story. Can anyone reading this imagine Joe Posnanski penning a piece titled ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF? Can anyone reading this imagine Kriegel calling himself Pulitzer worthy?

Hell, no.

You know why I write? Honestly? Because I love trying to understand someone’s life and put it into words. I love having 400 pages to tell a story—without typing the words “me” or “I” once. I love the intensity of deadline pressure; the search for the perfect sentence; the elusive feeling (which comes, oh, once every 80 stories) when you’ve really nailed it.

I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Mike Royko. I’m certainly not in his class. But I’ll take a guess he probably felt the same way.

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Here here. Very well said. Guys like Whitlock and Parker give a horrible name and rep to the 90 percent of sports journalists who are good, hard-working, honest pros. It’s pathetic how much attention they get.

Antonio D’Arcangelis

Good piece. Oddibe young again.

The Mighty Quinn

The “veteran reporter” should have told you your response, while perhaps excessive, was also perfectly natural given the circumstance.

Beyond that, this writeup is hardly one of your better ones. It’s a complete non sequitur through and through.

alan morris

Don’t know about Parker, but why does what Whitlock wrote as a personal ‘post’ get so many ppl all lathered up?wasn’t in his Fox column. There are many things to be said about Whitlock, but saying he is typical of todays sports writing isn’t one of them.

Jeff Pearlman

if you constantly remind people you’re not typical, you’re more typical than you know.

alan morris

Whitlock is typical of sportswriting today? I don’t think that is a defensible statement. Very very few sports columnist talk about race.

Matt

So in order to show the shallowness of “look at me” journalism, you wrote a “look at me” piece. Brilliant.

Derftron

Soooooo, you use “I” 25 times in a piece criticizing somebody for writing about themself. You realize you just wrote a super long humble-brag about yourself and how “real” of a writer you truly are right?? “Sportswriters shouldn’t promote themselves, they should be like ME!” Hilarious

Jeff Pearlman

Jason?

http://danraley.com Dan Raley

Kriegel’s Namath book still makes me thirsty, and Eig’s Robinson and Gehrig books were masterful trips back in time. They’re classics. We’ve never met, but I think Jeff Pearlman has turned in a damn good writer as well.

ROB D

Good post that couldn’t have been written without the use of “I,” a factor apparently unapparent to some of your critics.

Andy

So, you write in your blog where you discuss very personal things, but criticize other sportswriters for discussing themselves in a different forum?

Jeff Pearlman

Andy, I’m saying the writer who devotes himself to a piece on why he should win the Pulitzer probably has some issues.

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Once again, Jeff Pearlman has produced an exhaustively researched, elegantly written book that re-creates one of the most colorful and memorable teams of the modern era. No basketball fan's bookshelf will be complete without it.